Children of Time, TARDISode 5: When We Were Young
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: The Doctor's not the only one who can't sleep, and a midnight snack sets the three Companions to sharing memories of their early years.


**==When We Were Young==**

_Sometimes I think that maybe we are just stories. Like we may as well just be words on a page, because we're only what we've done and what we are going to do._

—Jodi Lynn Anderson, _Tiger Lily_

Watson had often heard the Doctor wax eloquent on the subject of Time, sometimes with the affection of a dog owner describing their pet's favourite tricks, and other times with the wary respect of the snake charmers of India, well aware that the magnificent but deadly creatures they handled could turn on them in the blink of an eye...

However awe-inspiring the theory, though, it seemed to have little bearing on the day-to-day challenges of actually living inside a time machine. Watson and Holmes had soon mastered the art of finding their way around, but time-keeping was another matter entirely, especially when it came to sleeping. The Doctor rarely slept unless reminded, and his two Companions had vastly differing opinions on the importance of regular sleep, anyhow. Usually, the easiest way to cope with this was simply to sleep whenever one felt the need between adventures... or at least it had been, until their fateful visit to Polaris Seven.

After two days of Holmes barely being able to close his eyes, and the increasingly surly detective stubbornly refusing any form of sedative, Watson was nearing his wits' end over how to help his friend find the rest he so desperately needed. His own sleep was becoming affected as a result, as well. Still tossing and turning hours after he'd retired for the 'night', the doctor eventually gave up in disgust, throwing on a robe and slippers and heading for the kitchen; perhaps some hot chocolate would help...

As he approached the kitchen, Watson could hear that someone else was there already, raiding the refrigerator from the sound of things. He hoped it was Holmes, the detective's appetite had been decidedly poor of late as well, although that wouldn't worry him under normal circumstances. No such luck this time, however – Watson walked in to find the Doctor at the centre island, making the oddest sandwich he'd ever seen: pickles, ham and banana, all on one long slice of bread. Then the Doctor looked up and spotted him, smiling. "Evening, Watson! Never mind the mess." He crossed back to the fridge and pulled a package out of the freezer compartment, labelled: "Ice Cream Patties".

Watson just stood and stared, not only at the mixture of ingredients, but also at the sight of the Doctor _making food_, which happened about as often as he slept. "You're actually going to eat that?"

"Once it's done, yeah." The Time Lord took several bars of chocolate out of a cupboard, setting them on top of the ice cream package, then dove back into the fridge and brought out a block of something that looked very much like purple cheese. "The TARDIS said—well, not _said_ so much as... _intimated_—that it couldn't be done, not properly. Not in an _edible_ way. And I'm going to prove to her that it _can_ be."

Watson shook his head, although eyeing the cheese with interest, then remembered what he'd come in for. "Any milk left in there?"

"Course there is – what colour do you want?"

Watson blinked, then decided he wasn't really in the mood for experimenting on this occasion. "White – preferably cow's," he added hastily, grinning. Even after everything he and Holmes had seen with the Doctor, Watson still found himself very much in awe at being able to experience all these new and exotic cultures. Of course, all this must seem perfectly ordinary to the Doctor, for the most part; his colleague was gaining a deeper understanding as to why the Time Lord had such need of human Companions.

He found his favourite mug, which bore the slogan "Bigger On The Inside," and started poking around in the cupboards for chocolate powder, while the Doctor retrieved a glass milk bottle from the fridge and set it on the island.

"Trouble sleeping?" The Doctor's voice was decidedly sympathetic.

"My word, Holmes," Watson responded wryly, finally locating the right container, "however did you work that out?" He sighed, concern for his friend once more overshadowing his own frustrations.

"Sherlock, hey!" The Doctor's overly cheerful greeting made Watson start guiltily; he turned to see Holmes in the doorway, looking decidedly unimpressed at his friend's humour, and the Doctor gesturing enthusiastically at his half-made masterpiece. "Want a sandwich?"

Holmes shook his head, pointedly ignoring Watson's apologetic look, and pulled a stool up to the island. "Just some coffee."

"Ahhh, what kind? We do have seven hundred-plus types."

The detective gave a weary shrug. "Anything non-toxic to humans..."

Watson managed to catch the Doctor's eye as he heated his milk in the microwave, the message clear. The very last thing Holmes needed right now was more stimulants, he'd been practically living on coffee since they left the space station! Surely there must be something _like_ coffee in here, but with a more soothing effect...

"All rightie, something instant..." The Doctor started rummaging through the cupboards, finally bringing out a paper packet whose label he was careful to keep hidden as he fixed a tall mug of whatever-it-was, setting the finished drink in front of Holmes. "Theeere you are!"

Watson pulled up a stool himself, watching Holmes from under his brows. His friend blew the steam off the mysterious brown liquid and took a wary sip, visibly brightening at the taste. The doctor relaxed as Holmes took a larger swallow and turned his attention to his own drink, stirring in a large spoonful of chocolate and watching it slowly melt into the steaming hot milk with a smile of anticipation.

The Doctor waved an inviting hand over the cluttered countertop. "Seriously, you fellas don't want any midnight snacks? You're allowed, you know."

Holmes shook his head firmly, eyeing the Time Lord's creation askance. Watson, on the other hand, had to admit he was feeling a tad peckish himself. "Well, I suppose it's midnight somewhere." He selected bread, butter and ham, sampling all three cautiously before making his own sandwich.

The Doctor grinned at Watson, then looked back at Sherlock, his tone wheedling: "C'mon, Sherlock, you've got literally the biggest pantry in the universe and you never use it!"

"Mrs. Hudson's caught him raiding hers a few times in the small hours," Watson chuckled. "Holmes, remember when you ate those jam tarts she made for her sister's visit... that very morning?"

Holmes groaned. "Don't remind me!" Plaintively: "If she'd only allowed me to visit the bakery..."

The Doctor's eyes widened, snickering. "_Allowed_ you to visit the bakery?"

"I could easily have purchased some more pastries! But no, that wasn't good enough for her!"

Watson grinned. "Oh, heavens, no; she stood over Holmes with a rolling pin until he'd baked another batch of tarts from scratch and then cleaned up the mess. I think I heard him falling into bed at about... what was it, three in the morning?"

"Four," came the detective's sour response, half-muffled by his raised coffee mug.

"Aww. Well, no limits here," the Doctor smiled sympathetically, "just lots of goodies. I'm sure it'd make the old girl happy." He patted the fridge, grinning as the TARDIS gave an encouraging twitter.

Watson took a bite of sandwich and leaned back in his seat, cradling his mug in both hands. "This does take me back, I must say." About three decades, in fact... good heavens, how long had it been since he'd last thought about his early school years? Easy enough now to look back on those relatively carefree days and wish he'd done better with them... "Did they ever hold midnight feasts when you were at school, Holmes?"

Holmes waved a casual hand. "Oh, yes." The detective's tone was light, but Watson still thought he could hear a faint wistful note: "I never attended any, of course, but the evidence was always plain to be seen the next morning."

The Doctor frowned slightly, jumping in. "Midnight feasts? Anybody care to explain to the alien in the room?"

Watson shot him a grateful look, although he was fairly certain the "alien in the room," human history expert, didn't actually need telling. He really should have known better than to go digging so casually into Holmes's early memories – he'd always had the distinct impression that his friend's boyhood hadn't been especially happy. "Well, they're exactly what you'd expect from the name: a feast at midnight. Whoever's invited sneaks out of bed to wherever it's being held, bringing any tuck they've brought from home to share. Of course, we didn't often get away with it..." He gave the Doctor a pained grin – most of his old schoolmasters had favoured traditional methods when it came to punishments. "I think most of the fun was in the planning."

The Doctor pulled up a chair and straddled it backwards, resting his chin on his folded arms, grinning fondly at Watson's explanation. "I'll bet you got up to all sorts of pranks in college." His eyes narrowed playfully. "Don't deny it—I'm on to you."

Watson chuckled. "I wouldn't dream of it." He sipped thoughtfully, casting his mind back, then brightened – of course, what better story in present company? "Well, as I'm sure you're both aware, I've met many doctors in the course of my career, even before graduating; but there was one particular owner of that title I will never forget..."

He was gratified to see Holmes unconsciously leaning forward, arms resting on the benchtop, still holding his now-empty mug; the Doctor raised his eyebrows invitingly, sandwich lying forgotten. It had been far too long since he'd last had such an appreciative audience, and he hadn't even begun the tale...

"Before studying at Bart's, I was at St. Andrew's in Fife. You two may already know this: but at certain universities, it's a tacit understanding that anyone of age can purchase themselves an honourary degree, for the right price – which back then was about fifteen pounds. So one day, our chaplain at the time, the Right Insufferable Reverend Stephen Gibbs, decides he ought to have one, too. Off he marches to plead his case to the Archchancellor, who reluctantly has to concede that the Reverend's money is as good as anyone else's. And, of course, Gibbs wasn't going to settle for being quietly handed a piece of paper, oh no. He had to have his own formal degree ceremony in the Great Hall, pomp and circumstance, the whole lot."

"Sounds like a real piece of work," the Doctor snorted.

Holmes nodded, also looking disgusted. "I gather he got what he paid for, however?"

Watson smiled in grim amusement. "Oh yes, he had his moment in the limelight all right: standing up there on the podium, chest all puffed out like a bullfrog's while they draped the gown around his shoulders – I'm sure it was a most satisfactory experience..." Innocently: "Right up until he got home."

"What'd you boys do?" The Doctor's suspicious tone was completely belied by his broad grin.

Watson maintained his innocent expression, eyes twinkling. "Well, one of the odd privileges of the chaplain's office at St. Andrew's is the use of a manservant. Gibbs' retainer was a Glaswegian by the name of Sanderson, although most of us just called him 'Sandy'. Decent fellow, too, always ready with a joke or a cheerful greeting; it seemed a downright shame to us chaps that he had to take orders from a pious bag of wind like Gibbs. So when the news came trickling down from on high that the Right Insufferable was set on purchasing himself a mortarboard, some of us put our heads together..."

"And?"

Watson pointedly ignored the impatient prompt from Holmes, taking a long, slow sip of his hot chocolate before continuing. "Anyhow... the minute Gibbs gets home from the ceremony, he rings for Sandy and tells him: 'Now, Sanderson, you must be sure to call me the Doctor from now on; and if anybody inquires about me, be sure to say: "The Doctor's in his study," or "the Doctor's engaged," or "the Doctor will see you in a moment." Understood?'"

The Doctor raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "That man had _issues_."

Watson's smile was serene. "Oh, he saw the error of his ways soon enough." This would be fun, he rarely got to show off his talent for the thicker Scottish brogues. "'Well, now, that depends,' Sandy drawls, 'on whether you can call me the Doctor, too!'" He grinned at his companions' bemused expressions. "Gibbs' face is an absolute study, but before he can say a word, Sandy goes on: 'Aye, it's so, for when I found that it cost so little, I've been and got a diploma myself. So, Doctor, you'll be just good enough to say, "Doctor, put on some coals," or "Doctor, bring me the whiskey and hot water"; and if anybody inquires to you about me, you'll be sure to say: "The Doctor's in the pantry," or "the Doctor's in the stable," or "the Doctor's cleaning boots," as the case may be.'"

Holmes threw his head back, shoulders shaking in silent mirth, while the alien Doctor nearly fell over sideways laughing. "You lads gave 'im the money, didn't you?"

Watson shook his head, chuckling. "No, no, he paid for it himself – we just put the idea into his head. Well, the last thing anyone wanted was that sanctimonious fathead Gibbs prancing about the halls, putting on airs –" he rolled his eyes – "any more than usual, at least. Funny thing, but we never heard a word from him on the subject after that..."

The Doctor burst out laughing again, shaking his head. "Aw, that's brilliant."

Holmes grinned broadly, wiping his eyes. "Bravo, Watson!"

Watson gave a faint gasp, eyes widening in mock surprise, greatly relieved at Holmes' lightening mood. "Was that a compliment of my narrative talents, Holmes?"

Holmes raised a warning finger, his tone affectionate. "Don't push your luck."

* * *

The Doctor snickered. "How 'bout you, Holmes—got any juicy school stories?"

Juicy? Holmes sighed, his good mood starting to evaporate. "Not especially." His memories of his earliest school days consisted mostly of enduring daily humiliation at the hands of both students and teachers; and the one individual he had felt respect for – Professor Newman, his mathematics teacher – he remembered far too fondly to share any stories about.

"Well," Watson said hesitantly, "I do remember you telling me about your college days once. You had that friend... oh, what was his name..." He snapped his fingers. "Victor, wasn't it? Victor Trevor."

The Doctor nodded encouragingly. "Yeah, he sounded like he was a nice kid."

How on earth... oh, yes. "That's right – you published the Gloria Scott account, didn't you?" Holmes said to Watson, remembering with chagrin that Mycroft had taken pains to send him that issue of the _Strand_ while still on hiatus in Montpelier.

Watson shot him a look of mock affront. "Well, I could hardly leave it out, could I? Your first case..."

"Early cases, yes!" The Doctor bounced in his chair, looking expectantly at Holmes. "Early cases are good!"

Watson was also nodding eagerly, as well he might – as far as Holmes could recall, he'd only ever mentioned one other incident from his early career, the Musgrave Ritual. The detective sighed, he knew when he was beaten; it was hard enough resisting the puppy-dog eyes of one Doctor, never mind both! He started to cast his mind back, humming thoughtfully – and then the memory of a sorrowful pair of _blue_ eyes reintruded... he had to admit, Beth had done her ancestor proud... "Have I ever mentioned, Watson, how Lestrade and I first became acquainted?"

Watson's brow furrowed. "Not that I recall... although I'd wager a large sum that your first encounter was less than cordial."

"What happened?" the Doctor grinned excitedly.

Holmes frowned as he called the particulars to mind. "Well, if memory serves correctly... I was on the trail of a jewel thief at the time, one Jim Dawson by name. He'd had the poor judgement to rob the elderly aunt of one of my former fellow-students, a Mrs. Sophia Carrington. Most of her jewellery was insured, thankfully, but there was one piece she considered irreplaceable: an ornate gold brooch, set with diamonds – a wedding present from her late husband.

I succeeded in tracking Dawson down to one of his regular haunts: one of those squalid establishments along the riverfront that prefer to remain nameless, the better to do business. Dawson was meant to meet a friend of his there that evening, who often acted as a fence of stolen property. I had just settled myself into a booth, preparing for a long night of drowning my sorrows with a single pint, when to my great surprise and even greater annoyance, two more men walked in. They were convincingly dressed as common labourers, as was I, but to a trained observer like myself it was obvious at a glance that they were, in truth, plain-clothes Yarders."

"One of them being our friend Lestrade?" Watson asked, smiling.

"Indeed," Holmes answered dryly. "Our dear, newly-promoted Inspector hadn't yet learnt not to go undercover while clean-shaven. The gall-mark from his old helmet's chin strap was still visible beneath the dirt." To be fair, though, he'd made equally obvious mistakes with his own disguises at times.

"So what happened?"

"Unfortunately, Dawson's instincts were serving him well that night. Exactly what tipped him off, I don't know, but the next moment he was up and sidling over to another pair of drinkers, dropping a word in their ear before making for the door." Holmes looked grave. "I've seldom seen such murderous expressions, it's a wonder Lestrade and his colleague couldn't feel the twin gazes boring into their backs."

Watson nodded wisely. "So you had to make a choice: stay on Dawson or tip off the Yarders that they'd been recognised."

Holmes smirked. "On the contrary... I was already making my way up to the bar, giving a rather convincing impression of being 'on the ran-tan', so to speak, and just as Dawson started heading in our direction, pretended to recognise Lestrade as an old acquaintance who owed me money. Thankfully, that was enough to put both Yarders on full alert, and as the thief tried to slink past, I threw a drunken punch at Lestrade's face... which most unluckily missed and glanced off Dawson's shoulder instead."

The Doctor snickered. "Did it start a bar brawl?"

"That's putting it mildly, although it didn't last long; Lestrade blew his whistle and back-up closed in. Several arrests were made, including Dawson and myself, and we were hauled off to the Yard to cool our heels for the night."

"And the jewels?"

"Well, Dawson was searched, of course, the same as everyone else, but nothing of value was found on him."

Watson frowned. "But that's why he went to that tavern, isn't it – to get rid of them?"

"Which led me to the conclusion that he must have done exactly that, before attempting to make his exit. His contact hadn't turned up yet, so there was really only one place they could have been."

The Doctor tilted his head, raising his eyebrows invitingly.

Holmes decided that he wouldn't keep his audience in suspense any longer on this occasion. "Such establishments tend to use the same sorts of hiding places, such as hollow benches..."

Watson's expression cleared as light dawned. "So you told the police where to look?"

"Not immediately – Dawson and I were in the same holding cell." And a longer night he'd never spent anywhere, the thief hadn't even been on nodding acquaintance with soap.

Watson winced. "Right, that wouldn't have looked so good."

Holmes shook his head adamantly – breaking cover in that situation would have been downright suicidal. "It was by the merest chance that I happened to be released before he was. Once out of earshot of my cellmates, I approached the not-unreasonably suspicious Lestrade, eventually convincing him that I was no mere drunken brawler, and that his own rising career might benefit from a closer inspection of the tavern's seating arrangements."

"And he decided to take a chance on you," the Doctor put in.

The detective nodded, trying not to look smug and failing. "A decision that has stood him in good stead ever since..."

" ...though you say it yourself," Watson finished teasingly.

Holmes gave him a mock glare. "And as I recall, it wasn't so very long afterwards that Watson and I first met." His stern expression softened, smiling at his friend across the counter. Fixed Point or not, the detective would always be grateful to whatever Providence had seen fit to throw the two of them together on that fateful day – it truly had been the saving of both.

"And the rest is..." Watson chuckled, "well, literature."

"According to some," the detective countered dryly.

Watson sighed in resignation. "Yes, Holmes has not been my only critic, sadly. Lestrade and Gregson weren't the least bit impressed by their portrayals in 'A Study in Scarlet' – their colleagues still won't let them live it down entirely."

The Doctor grinned. "Wayeeell, that was definitely not a nice physical description of Lestrade, there, Watson. Were you having issues with him at the time?" He gave his colleague a teasing wink.

Watson's answering smirk was entirely unrepentant. "Just his ability to give credit where it's due."

Holmes chuckled – he'd also discovered the hard way that it was unwise to annoy a writer, and with him Watson didn't even need to make anything up.

* * *

Watson turned his attention to the Doctor. "Well now, Doctor, what about you? You must have more than your fair share of interesting anecdotes."

The Doctor chuckled, having expected that. "Nine hundred-plus years, are you kidding me? I wouldn't even know where to begin."

Holmes stifled a yawn—yup, that drink was totally working. "At the beginning, perhaps?"

Still not narrow enough of a field. Fortunately, Watson narrowed it further. "That automobile in the garage, Doctor, the yellow one—when did you pick her up from?"

The Time Lord lit up. "Oh, Bessie? Pretty little thing, in't she? Got her from UNIT at the beginning of m' third life." He smiled fondly. "She was a brilliant roadster…"

The TARDIS chirped indignantly. She had always been jealous of the Doctor's affection for Bessie in that lifetime, and it hadn't helped that Bessie could _go _places while the TARDIS was stuck. Basically, the TARDIS had seen Bessie as his mistress.

The Doctor frowned, looking up. "Oi, I couldn't help it that I needed a way to get around!"

His girl beeped back derisively.

"That's not fair—she can't even defend herself!"

Holmes frowned musingly. "You've mentioned this UNIT before, Doctor. Is it connected with the military?"

The Doctor turned his gaze back downward. "It's paramilitary—used to report to the UN. When the old girl and I were grounded on Earth for a few years, I worked for UNIT as their scientific adviser. It wasn't a _bad_ job, really, and the people were…" He smiled sadly—faces flashing before his mind's eye, most of whom he had not seen in lifetimes: the Brigadier, Benton, Yates, Liz, Jo, Sarah Jane, Harry… He regretted being too impulsive and energetic and resentful in his earlier lives to really appreciate the stability, the sense of _family_ and _home_, of that time. "…brilliant."

Watson's brow had furrowed at the word _grounded_. "I gather," he said hesitantly, "your being stranded wasn't merely due to technical difficulties?"

A shadow fell over the Doctor's mood. He preferred to remember the brightness of those days, but he could never fully forget the darkness. _Ten thousand years of absolute power—that's what it takes to be really corrupt_. "No, not just. Always a bit of a rebel, me, and the stuff that I normally do—helping out throughout Time and Space… Well, my people frowned on that."

Which he'd always understood, kind of, but had _always_ disagreed with. The rest of the universe could be going and had gone to hell before, and the Time Lords would stand by and do nothing. It never failed to sicken him. And by the time they finally chose to _act_, they had become so corrupt that they'd brought back one of their founders, twisted him to suit their needs, and in doing so had created a monster that led them to the Final Sanction.

They had left him with no choice.

"Made rules against it, in fact," he continued. "Said I was breaking the Laws of Time." He sighed, heartsick. "And before you even ask, I really wasn't—there's a difference between the _actual_ laws and _Gallifrey's_ laws." His voice fell to a murmur. "Anyway, they forced a regeneration on me and exiled me to Earth. Blocked my knowledge of how to really _pilot_ the TARDIS and changed her codes for good measure."

Holmes's eyes widened despite increasingly heavy eyelids, his expression one of pure empathy. Of course—Sherlock Holmes, of all people, knew only too well what it was like to miss one's home and be unable to return.

Watson smiled, also in empathy. "And knowing you, Doctor, I'd surmise that your… stay was far from uneventful."

A bit of a smile returned to the Doctor's face. "Oh, of course, although it was _slow_." He shuddered involuntarily. "But still… like I said, lot of amazing people. Even amazing enemies." He winked again.

Holmes nodded in understanding. He did, as the Doctor recalled from the stories, have his own Rogues Gallery on his bedroom walls—Professor James Moriarty no doubt holding the place of honour amongst them. Watson, on the other hand, shivered involuntarily, rather more grounded about such things as enemies than his friend or, admittedly, the Doctor himself.

Sadness tinged the Time Lord's smile, because out of all the foes he had fought in his third lifetime, only one had truly mattered. "The good thing about having a friend for an enemy is that you know them—the bad thing about having an enemy for a friend is that you have to fight them."

"Who, Doctor?" Watson said gently.

"Ah, we were friends in school—best friends, actually. Grew up together. But I dropped out of the academy and he stayed in it, and my parents hooked me up with a nice girl, and he went on to other schools." He hadn't been ready to settle down then, still barely more than a child (and his wife had hardly been older), but he hadn't yet really grown enough of a spine to stand up to his father. That had _not_ ended well—he'd been as unfaithful a husband and father as one could be without having an affair. It wasn't that he hadn't loved his wife and children—he'd grown to love her, and he'd adored their son and daughter—but he had simply been too _young_, too _restless_, too _stifled_ by Gallifreyan convention. He'd regretted it, of course, in later years—regretted not making the most of his marriage, of the childhoods of his children.

His best friend had predicted it all. If the Doctor had simply _listened_ to him, stayed single, defied his father… could he have prevented that descent into darkness by being there for his friend? "I didn't really see him again for another few centuries, and by then, I was stuck on Earth and he was obsessed with universal conquest."

Watson looked rather heartsick. Of course, he couldn't imagine what it would feel like to lose a best friend to darkness rather than death, and, thankfully, he never would know.

Holmes sighed. "Is it just me, Doctor, or is Earth written up in some Evil Overlord handbook as a prime starting location for one's new empire?"

The Doctor smiled ruefully. "Yeah, it's a bit weird, I grant you that. But Earth is just… special. Humans are special. And special things… and people… are just magnets for trouble." He shrugged.

Holmes's lips twitched as he glanced sideways at Watson, probably waiting for a snarky comment.

However, Watson's expression was thoughtful. "Well, some, certainly…" He smiled at Holmes and the Doctor. "But I should also think some people were just naturally drawn to where they were needed."

Holmes cleared his throat, blushing faintly (the Doctor grinned at that). "So this, ah, friend of yours, Doctor—what happened when you saw him again?"

"He tried over and over again to conquer Earth, the universe…" The Time Lord shrugged again—if he focused on that time rather than what followed, he could hold it together. Otherwise, it sometimes still made him want to scream and rail at the heavens for taking from him the closest friend he'd ever had. "It's just what he did. Even had the name for it: 'the Master.'"

Watson was looking hesitant again. "Was that a tradition among your people, Doctor, choosing one's own name?"

Holmes snorted. "Well, if he didn't, his parents would have a lot to answer for…"

Watson gave him an odd look, doubtless noticing that the detective was, quite suddenly, behaving unusually flippant. It was a side effect of the sleepytime drink the Doctor had given him—not that he minded; he thought it was kind of funny.

The Time Lord grinned. "Bit of tradition, that, yeah, choosing names. Not everybody did it, but it wasn't unusual. And the Master really, really _liked_ his name—literally all his aliases were built around it. I finally had to ask him about it, when he was holding me at gunpoint, naturally."

Holmes fought and lost a battle with a yawn, looking annoyed with himself immediately afterwards. Now _that_ was kind of adorable… "And?"

"Well, he said he took it up when he finished his fourth Master's degree—or was it his fifth? Anyway, I asked him what the degree was, and he wouldn't quite look me in the eye when he said, 'It is of no consequence.' And at that point, I'm getting a bit exasperated because it's been a long day of chasing him all around the countryside, and I say, 'Don't tell me it was a Master's in Planetary Domination.'" The Doctor burst out laughing. "...and the look on his face just said it all!"

Watson couldn't help laughing, too, although with a twinge of nervousness. Maybe wondering what happened to the Master? Probably.

The Doctor grinned, unwilling to think about that, and shook his head. "It really wasn't such a bad time, in the end."

Watson opened his mouth, but a snore interrupted him. Holmes was fast asleep, slumped forward onto the countertop, head pillowed on his arms, breathing deep and even.

The Doctor smiled softly at his handiwork. "Well, would you look at that?" he murmured.

Watson gave him a suspicious look. "Doctor, what was that drink you gave him?"

"It's like the tea equivalent of sleeping pills; don't worry, no ill side-effects."

Watson sighed and shook his head. "Well, be warned: if I get a visit from an angry detective in a few hours, I'll be sending him your way." The last word turned into his own yawn as he rose from his chair.

The Doctor arched both eyebrows. "Noted." He rose and walked around to the detective, carefully lifting him off the chair and into his arms. Sherlock felt as light as he had the first time the Doctor had held him, though he looked far more peaceful now, lips just curved into a calm smile.

Watson smiled gratefully, headed for the door himself, then halted and turned. His smile widened inexplicably at something behind the Doctor. "Oh, and Doctor?"

"Hmm? What?"

The human doctor grinned and nodded at that unknown point. "Your ice cream's melted."

Eyes widening in horror, the Doctor groaned softly. "And I was looking forward to that sandwich, too."

Watson chuckled, probably glad he didn't have to clean up the mess. "Goodnight, Doctor."

You win some; you lose some.

* * *

**Author's note from Ria:**

So many stories, so little time... We hope you enjoyed the regrettably slim selection! I have a confession to make: Watson's last story was plag... er, _researched_ from an actual Victorian era newspaper article. You can find the original here: www . nathanville. org. uk /web-albums/ burgess/ scrapbook/ health/ images/ The%20Rival%20Doctors_ jpg . jpg

These old newspapers can be a great source of entertainment, not to mention inspiration – fellow Holmesians, do take the time to browse!

**Author's note from Sky:**

For the longest time, I was stumped on what "early days" story I wanted to give the Doctor, particularly when I've only scratched the surface of Classic Who. Three seemed like a natural candidate since I knew him the best, and I also wanted to pay tribute to _the_ Master, Roger Delgado. Eventually, the inspiration came in the form of almost-fluffy silliness—although the actual angst of the final narrative surprised even me. I know I went into a lot of detail with the Doctor's backstory, but I don't regret it—what's the fun of writing from his POV if you don't do things like this every once in a while? Last but not least, I hardly made up the bit about the Master choosing his name—I can't remember the exact source, but I once read that his name was meant to be _based on a college degree_, just like the Doctor's was!


End file.
